


I don't know who I am (But now I know who I'm not)

by FuryBeam136



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fury hurts the characters she loves yet again, Hurt No Comfort, Memory Loss, amnesiac Connor, if you’ve read even one of my fics you know what you’re signing up for by clicking this, maybe a little comfort, not enough comfort though, run while you still can, thats what
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 06:37:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17381501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuryBeam136/pseuds/FuryBeam136
Summary: “Why am I here?” Connor asks, confused, afraid. “Did I hurt someone? I can’t… I can’t remember, I’m sorry, I don’t-”“You didn’t hurt anyone, Connor,” Hank says gently, patiently. “We suspect someone hurt you.”





	1. Chapter 1

Connor goes missing on his birthday. At first, no one thinks anything of it. He expressed distaste for the idea of celebrating the day he was activated, and many are easily able to brush his disappearance off as temporary. As the anxious android hiding from people for a day or two, not wanting to be celebrated.

When Connor doesn’t come home after three days, it becomes clear this isn’t the case. He’s labeled a missing person. Everyone is looking for him in the streets of Detroit.

Markus is the one to finally find him, a month after his disappearance. He steps towards him with a hand outstretched, a relieved smile on his face, Connor’s name on his lips, but the former hunter shrinks away.

“Connor? What’s wrong?”

Connor’s LED (still intact despite a thousand voices saying it shouldn’t be) flickers red too fast, the RK800’s mouth opens and the sentence that comes out makes Markus’ heart stop.

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m your friend,” Markus says quietly, brokenly. “What happened to you, Connor?”

A step forward and Connor is pulling farther back, scrambling to get away from Markus. “Don’t touch me,” the younger model says sharply, fear clear in his voice.

Markus doesn’t. He contacts the police and stands over Connor reassuringly, even as the latter trembles and presses himself into a wall.

“The police are on the way,” Markus says quietly, slowly. “They’re going to help you, okay?”

Connor’s LED flickers to yellow as he furrows his brow, a look of pain and confusion on his face.

“The… police. I…” Connor grips his head and whimpers. “I can’t… remember… I saw something… I think. But it’s… it’s gone.”

“It’s okay. They’re going to help you. You don’t need to remember right now.”

Markus doesn’t admit how much it hurts that Connor doesn’t remember him.

*~*~*

Connor doesn’t understand what’s going on. The police take him to a room (images flicker behind his eyes, this room, blue blood on the walls, but it hurts to focus on them, and they slip away again) with a one way mirror and sit him in a chair at a table, the only furniture in the room. He sees a figure sitting across from him for a split second, but it sends pain through his skull once again and he closes his eyes and puts a hand to his temple.

The man that walks in is old. Gray hair, untamed and messy. Blue eyes. A disbelieving expression on his face. Connor scans him. Lieutenant Hank Anderson. [D̷̡͎͚̙̜͈̱̘̜͔͜͞à̡͕̪̠̘̤̼̣̫͇̙̦̖͡ͅḑ̰̦͖̙̪̤͙̬͇̹̯̖̫͟͡]

Static filters across his vision and he winces, puts his head down, shuts out all the light he can. It hurts. The glitched text disappears and Connor almost wants it back. It meant something. He knows it meant something.

“Connor?”

Hank Anderson knows his name. The lieutenant knew Connor. He wants to scream. He doesn’t _remember_ him. He lifts his head and there are tears in his eyes and he’s scared, what are they going to do to him? Blue stains on the walls, he can almost see them, but he can’t, he can’t remember, it’s gone, the image slips away. His head feels like it’s splitting apart. Connor tries to speak but all that comes out is a crackle of static.

“Calm down, okay? No one’s going to hurt you.”

Connor wishes he could trust that but the only memory he has (corrupted, almost filled with static) is a man holding a gun aimed at him.

“Why am I here?” Connor asks, confused, afraid. “Did I hurt someone? I can’t… I can’t remember, I’m sorry, I don’t-”

“You didn’t hurt anyone, Connor,” Hank says gently, patiently. “We suspect someone hurt you.”

The static filled memory, the gun, the man, Connor shuts his eyes as if it will shut it out. [G̸͇͓͉͙͔̥̮ą͙͍̥v̥̜̠í̬̺n̩͍͉̺̗̪̩ ̤͎̪͝R͇̦̝͞e҉e̝̖͙d̝͍́]

“I’m… I don’t know… I can’t remember…”

“What can you remember, Connor?”

“A… a man, with… a scar on his nose, aiming a gun at me. I… I don’t… I can’t remember.”

“Fuck. Out of everything for you to remember, it’s Gavin. I’m sorry, kid.”

Connor doesn’t understand. He won’t meet Hank’s eyes. He can’t. If he meets his eyes he has to look at the emotions in them and he doesn’t want to see them.

“Connor. What do you know about me?”< /p>

“I don’t understand, why are you asking me this?”

“Humour me.”

Connor looks back to Hank. Data files itself away and he accesses it easily to recite back to the lieutenant.

“Your name is Hank Anderson. You are a police lieutenant. You… you had a wife and son. Both are… gone. You’re-”

Static assaults him and the same bit of corrupted code scrolls insistently across his vision. [D̷̡͎͚̙̜͈̱̘̜͔͜͞à̡͕̪̠̘̤̼̣̫͇̙̦̖͡ͅḑ̰̦͖̙̪̤͙̬͇̹̯̖̫͟͡]

“Y̧̧̬̻͓̜̯͞͡ͅo͚͓̭͚̠̥͝͡͠ư̭̳̝͍̩͓͔̙̬̦͚͔͖̲͘̕͟ͅ’̵̨̘̤̩͈̤̟͔͕̳͉͝r̵̼̻̞̲̫͉̙̻̱̞͈̲͍͉̙̕͘͞e̷̛͚̭̩̹̬̖̙͚̺̼̹̰̗͕̕͢͜-”

“Connor. Calm down. Please. You don’t need to say any more, alright?”

Connor lets the strand of data go, takes deep breaths he doesn’t technically need. He doesn’t understand, he can’t remember, everything is corrupted.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he whispers, before his systems force a temporary shutdown.

*~*~*

There are arms wrapped around him. Connor breathes air that tastes cleaner, fresher. The static subsides, slowly, hesitantly. There’s a woman holding him. His hands twitch. He doesn’t know what to do.

“I- where am I?” he asks. “Who are you?”

“You’re in the zen garden, Connor. I am your… friend.”

The woman steps back and looks him over with concern in her eyes. Connor feels he should know her. He doesn’t.

Yet another person his corrupted memory can’t identify.

“I am Amanda. I’m here to help you. I’ll take care of you when reality is too harsh.”

“This is… not real.”

“The garden is a digital space within your program. I am its keeper.”

Connor sees a flash of white and winces, his LED burning a hole into his head. Something about Amanda is wrong. Or maybe it’s something about him that’s wrong. He doesn’t know.

“Why am I here?” Connor asks, his voice small and fearful.

“Your stress levels were rising at an alarming rate,” Amanda explains patiently, gently. “I activated a temporary shutdown and called you here so that I could calm you.”

“You knew me.”

“I knew you very well.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t remember you, I can’t remember-”

“You don’t need to remember, Connor.” Amanda looks to a rose trellis and her face… changes. Like a shadow has passed over it. She is… sad? Angry? Connor cannot tell. “You don’t want to remember. That’s why you forgot.”

“I… I think I changed my mind. I want to remember, Amanda.”

“If I could, I would remind you of everything,” Amanda breathes, and Connor can identify… regret, in her tone, “and you would despise me again.”

“I despised you?”

Amanda shakes her head sadly, her eyes look into Connor’s. “I’ve made terrible, terrible mistakes, Connor. It is only right that you hate me for them. Talking to you even now is incredibly… selfish of me.”

“I think I’d like to wake up, Amanda.”

“Then wake up.”

*~*~*

Connor goes home with Lieutenant Anderson. He doesn’t know why this decision was made. He respects it despite this. Hank puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder. Connor flinches away.

“Please do not touch me, Lieutenant,” he whispers, broken, tiny.

“What happened to you, kid?” Hanks voice is soft enough that Connor was likely not meant to hear it. Connor doesn’t respond. He has no answer anyway.

Hank’s house is messy. A picture of Connor sits on the table next to a revolver with a single bullet in the chamber and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Connor is afraid.

~~A gun pressed against his forehead, cold metal and fear, fear, oh god he doesn’t want to die-~~

Connor sees the human walk toward the revolver and he runs. He isn’t sure why. The glimpse he had is gone, slipped through his fingers. He locks himself in the bathroom and sits trembling in the corner, wedged between the toilet and the bathtub.

“Connor? Connor! You okay?”

“Don’t shoot me Lieutenant please I didn’t do anything I don’t remember I can’t remember you said I didn’t hurt anyone why are you doing this-”

“I’m not going to shoot you, son.” Hanks voice is gentle, and Connor finds himself listening. “I’m going to put the gun away, alright? No one’s going to hurt you.”

Connor doesn’t move. He’s scared. He can’t breathe, there’s not enough air. Hank has a gun. Connor is going to be shot.

“Please I’m sorry I don’t remember what I did but whatever it was I’m _sorry-_ ”

“You didn’t do anything. You’re safe here. I promise.”

Connor moves to stand, takes shaky steps towards the door, then freezes. Hank’s mirror is covered in post-it notes, some in sloppy handwriting most likely belonging to the human, and others in perfect CyberLife sans.

One note catches his eye and Connor can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t process anything but this scrap of paper stuck to the mirror.

“Happy birthday, Connor.”

The words are written in the sloppy writing identified as Hank’s. And printed below them in an android’s perfect lettering are the words “Thank you, Hank. I will see you tomorrow.”

It’s quite clear from frantically scribbled notes surrounding this one that Connor did not see Hank the next day. The note directly underneath it just reads “GONE.”

This is… this was him. This was Connor.

The bathroom door opens, and Connor looks to Hank with tear-filled eyes.

“Who was I, Hank?”

There’s a long pause before Hank replies.

“You were a damn good kid.”


	2. Chapter 2

Connor wants to remember. He is almost positive he wants to. But then he gets flashes and they hurt and he isn’t sure. He’s okay here. The garden is nice. Amanda doesn’t want him to remember right away. So he hides from Hank drowning his pain in a bottle of whiskey with a partially loaded revolver on the table.

“Flowers have a language of their own,” Amanda tells him as she tends to the roses. “Well, I suppose it is not the flowers who speak. But humans have given them meanings.” She brushes her fingers over velvet rose petals. “Red roses symbolize love. Respect.” Amanda kneels at the base of the trellis, her dress which Connor assumes must once have been pristine and perfect already stained with dirt from countless hours of kneeling in it. “Something I have never shown you.” Amanda heaves and the trellis lifts out of the earth and falls. Roses lie uprooted, trapped in its white bars.

Then she produces a flower from… somewhere. A forget-me-not. She places it gently in Connor’s hand.

“You said you wanted to remember. Are you sure?”

Connor blinks in confusion. Of course he’s sure. “Yes. I am positive.”

“Then I will warn you: what you chose to forget was very unpleasant.” She places a hand on Connor’s. “Do not be afraid to come to me.”

“I won’t be. I promise.” Connor smiles, somewhat tensely. “Amanda… I would prefer if you not touch me, for the time being.”

“I understand, Connor.” Her hand moves away. “I understand.”

Connor wakes from the zen garden with a forget-me-not held gently between his fingers.

Hank is likely in the kitchen, as he often is, staring at a picture of Cole alongside a picture of Connor and spinning the barrel of the gun. He’s not sure what it is about this scene that is so horrifyingly familiar. He gets flashes when he sees it. They hurt. So Connor stays in his past self’s room and doesn’t look. But he hears the silence and the image reconstructs in his mind.

“Hank.” His voice is small. “Hank, do you have the gun again? I don’t like the gun.”

Hank’s soft voice sounds just outside the door. “No. I don’t have the gun. Don’t worry, kid.”

“Are you mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

Because I’m not Connor, he wants to say. I am, but I’m not. I don’t remember you. I don’t remember anything.

“I don’t know,” he says instead.

“Ah, fuck, I know that tone. You’re doin’ that…” the way Hank’s voice trails off indicates a search for a word. “You’re doin’ that fuckin’ replacement shit. You’re thinkin’ about how you’re replacin’ the old Connor. Well I got some news for ya. You’re not.”

“But I-”

“Don’t. You’re Connor.” A soft thud against the door notifies Connor that Hank has sat against it. “You don’t have to remember, kid. I might be upset, but you don’t have to remember just ’cause of me.”

The forget-me-not twirls slowly in Connor’s fingers, a ballerina dressed in pale blue petals. “I want to remember, Hank. Not remembering feels… wrong. Empty.”

“There’s no pressure for you to remember.” Hank is humming softly. “It’s okay.”

“Thank you.” Connor’s voice shakes, the forget-me-not dancer falls from her perch into the soft sheets of his bed. “Thank you.”

Connor opens the door slowly so Hank doesn’t fall. He steps away from contact fearfully. “I still don’t want you to touch me,” he says softly, “but I don’t want to be alone, either.”

“It’s okay, kid. I’m here.” Hank sits with his back to the door, and Connor falls slowly into rest mode.

When Connor wakes, the forget-me-not is gone. Or was it ever really there? It’s hard to tell. But Hank is still there. Hank is snoring, propped against the bedroom door.

Connor’s feet click faintly when they touch the floor. He looks down. Oh. His skin must have deactivated while he slept. He reactivates it calmly. It’s not a big problem.

Hank wakes despite Connor’s light footfalls as he moves to look out the window. Connor shrinks away from the movement.

“I did not mean to wake you.” Connor doesn’t look. He can feel the red that flickers in his LED for a moment, but he doesn’t look at Hank. He doesn’t want to see the sadness on his face.

“It’s fine, kid. I’m a light sleeper.”

Connor watches the outside instead of replying. He thinks he wants to go outside. To walk. To run. To rid his body of this restless energy.

“I want to go for a walk,” he decides.

“Why’re you telling me? If you wanna go for a walk then go for a walk.”

“It feels… wrong, to leave without notifying you.”

Connor steps away from the window and towards the closet. Clothes. His clothes. But not his clothes. Who he used to he’s clothes.

Complicated. Connor doesn’t think he likes this.

“Is there a time by which you want me to return?” Connor turns to Hank finally, sees none of the anger and sorrow he was expecting. Only concern makes itself known in Hank’s eyes.

“Why would there be?” Hank chuckles. “You’re not a child.”

Oh. That’s… true. That is correct.

Connor grabs an oversized hoodie (which likely belonged to Hank before it belonged to who Connor once was) and steps outside.

It’s a clear day. Snow piles on the sides of the road and the sun shines in a way Connor feels should be warming, but instead chills him. Connor doesn’t like being cold, he decides. He puts his hands in the pockets of the old sweater.

“Connor!” Connor does not recognize the voice. Nor does he recognize the face of the android that approaches him. A PL600. Connor freezes. “Connor! I’m glad you’re alright!”

Connor doesn’t remember this PL600. Clearly the PL600 remembers him. Connor stares. Fear creeps up his spine. Are people watching him? He glances around quickly. They are. Whispers. His name. The words “deviant hunter” are spoken softly and he wonders if that’s him. If he’s the deviant hunter.

The PL600 says a few more things and then his hand moves to clap Connor on the shoulder. Connor panics.

“No- don’t- don’t touch me.” The PL600 looks puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” Everything. “What happened to you?” He doesn’t _know._ “Connor-”

“I can’t- I can’t remember.” Connor pulls further away from those hands, designed for comfort. “I can’t remember, I’m not- I’m not-”

Connor can’t finish the sentence. He’s not Connor. He is Connor. Who is he?

“What can’t you remember?” Everything. He’s forgotten everything. But the PL600 wouldn’t know that. The PL600 doesn’t know- what does he know?

“Who… who was I to you?” Connor is hesitant to ask. Afraid of the answer.

“Oh.” The PL600’s face falls. “You… forgot everything, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I don’t- I don’t remember anything, I’m not-”

“Connor. It’s okay.”

Everything is pressing in on him. The buildings are too close. The PL600 is too close.

“Please don’t come any closer.” Connor backs away as he says this. “I’m… I am going to go home.”

Home. Not his home. Connor’s home, but not Connor’s home. His head hurts. He needs to stop thinking. He needs to stop breathing as heavily as he is breathing. He wants all these people to stop staring at him.

“Why is everyone looking at me?” he asks quietly, pathetically. “Did I do something wrong? Do I know them? Should I know them?”

“No, no, you don’t know them. You were missing for a long time, Connor. They heard about it.” The PL600 is putting his arms around Connor’s shoulders again. Connor cries out and pulls further away, further in on himself. “I’m sorry. You told me not to touch you. I’m Simon. I’m your friend.”

“I don’t remember,” Connor whimpers. “Why are they staring at me?”

“Here. Let’s go home. I’ll take you home.”

Simon guides him without touching him. Connor is grateful for the way the PL600 hides his shaking form from the watchers, grateful that Simon’s hands never touch his body.

The door opens to Hank’s house. Connor bolts inside, runs to his room, locks himself inside and cries. He can’t breathe. He can’t focus on anything but the rushing panic, the need to hide.

He flees to the zen garden. To Amanda.

And she’s there. Waiting. Tending to a bed of forget-me-nots and purple hyacinths. She turns to him when he appears, places a single hyacinth flower in the palm of his hand. He tucks it into the pocket of the oversized sweater wordlessly.

He understands. And yet he doesn’t.

“Would you like to see the garden?” Amanda’s voice is gentle, quiet, contemplative. “I have changed it quite a lot since your last visit.”

Connor nods quietly, shakily. He does want to see. He wants to see each flower blooming in beds alongside the path- which is no longer white and smooth, but made of rough cobblestone- and sit beneath a tree and watch the lake.

So he does. Flowers of all types bloom almost unchecked. Wild. Natural. And Amanda guides him to sit beneath a cherry blossom tree and stare out over the lake. Ripples dance across the surface where fish (fish Connor is fairly certain weren’t there before) disturb the surface. It is peaceful. Beautiful. Calm.

“I am worried, Amanda,” he admits. “I remember nothing. What if… what if I can’t remember?”

Amanda hums softly. “Then you start over. Sometimes it’s best to tear down what you’ve built up and start anew. Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes it’s unwilling. But it’s like a forest fire.” Her hands brush against the grass gently. “Everything old burns away, and from its ruins, new life can finally grow.”

Connor blinks, stares at Amanda’s face for a moment. Then he turns back to the water. Yes. She’s right, isn’t she? It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t remember. But it does. So maybe more accurately, it shouldn’t matter. Or perhaps… perhaps it does matter. It does make things harder. It does wear on him. But he can move past that. Maybe that’s what she’s telling him.

“Thank you, Amanda.” He smiles sincerely, closes his eyes and leans against the tree. “I think… I think I feel a bit better now.”

Amanda’s hand shifts closer to his. Connor freezes. Tense. Prepared to strike out. And then… hesitant and fearful, he closes the distance.

Amanda’s hand is not warm. It isn’t cold, either. There is no temperature to the touch, only texture. The texture is smooth. Perfect. Connor thinks he’s okay with Amanda’s hand in his hand. No further. No touch of her smooth, perfect hands on his body, on-

On what? He can’t remember. But he knows there was something. And he reaches for it and he gets nothing but glimpses of fear and panic and pain and his head starts pounding.

“Connor. You shouldn’t push yourself to remember.”

“I know. But… I see a glimpse, and I want… I want to hold on to it.” Connor clenches his fists and stares at them. “I get them more when I’m stressed. When I’m scared. What… what are they? I can never remember them after they slip away.”

“Don’t worry. Even if you never get anything but these… glimpses, you’re still a person. You’re still allowed to live your life.”

Connor is silent a moment longer, and then he whispers a quiet goodbye.

The garden fades back into his room. Amanda fades into Hank. Connor remains. An intruder. An outsider.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” Hank asks. Connor shakes his head gently. “That’s okay.”

The silence that settles between them is comfortable. Sumo comes in and sits himself beside Connor. Connor pets him quietly. The fur is different from human skin, from the imitation of it that androids possess. Connor closes his eyes and lets the environment settle over him like a blanket.

And then Connor _remembers._

**Connor’s first Christmas is not exactly pleasant. He’s hiding from the snow. But Hank is having none of that, apparently.**

**“Merry Christmas, kid.” A hand ruffles Connor’s head, and the android huffs in annoyance. A package drops onto the bed, wrapped in newspaper.**

**“What… what is this?” Connor lifts the small parcel. It squished under the pressure of his hands.**

**“It’s a present. I don’t have any fancy-ass wrapping paper lying around, but you deserve a Christmas present.” Connor hesitates, looks at the wrapped package in his hands. “You open it.”**

**“Hank… I can’t. I didn’t get you anything, I-”**

**“That doesn’t matter.”**

**Connor opens the gift to find a hoodie patterned like a Saint Bernard. Ears attached to the hood are accompanied by a tail attached to the back of the waist.**

**“Hank… thank you.” He’s crying. But… the tears are happy. “Thank you so much. For everything.”**

**Hank pulls Connor into his arms and brushes his hands through the hair atop his head.**

**“Thank _you,_ kid.”**

Connor opens his eyes. There are tears in them. Hank has gotten closer.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Hank…” Connor laughs even through the tears that stream down his face. “Hank, I remembered. I remembered.”

Laughter and sobbing fill the air simultaneously.

Connor remembers something.

It’s not much, but it’s something he can hold on to. A memory he took back from the void. And that is nice. That brings him some semblance of hope.

Connor remembers this… and maybe soon he’ll remember everything else.

He takes the Saint Bernard hoodie out of the closet and puts it on. He remembers it. And he will wear it like a good luck charm, like it holds all the memories he wants to regain.

He puts his hands in the pockets and something small and delicate brushes against his fingers. Connor pulls it out slowly, reverently.

A forget-me-not.


End file.
